In Good Faith
by Cat Singer
Summary: AU. Autumn 1981: A war orphan is reluctantly taken in by the dead mother’s fastidious sister over the objections of her bigoted husband, who fears for the safety of their toddler son with such a child in the house. Think you know this story? Think again.
1. No One Left

(I disclaim the characters, settings, and concepts which belong to J.K. Rowling. This story is written purely for my own enjoyment and the enjoyment of others, and to hone my craft as a writer. Thank you.)

* * *

A strange procession of two hurried through a narrow, dark hallway, the small bat-eared creature in the lead nearly tripping over his pillowcase as he turned every few seconds to ensure the square-shouldered child behind him was keeping up. "Master and Mistress," he said in his shrill voice, "Master and Mistress have given most strict instructions, very strict indeed—"

"I know they don't want me here," the child interrupted, tucking a lock of short brown hair behind one ear. "You don't have to tell me."

The house-elf winced. "That is not what was being meant—" Fortunately for his truthfulness, they reached their destination at this moment, and he reached up to the knob of a severely plain door on the left side of the passage, turning it and entering the room beyond. The child followed him in, setting down a heavy knapsack and looking around as the fire in the fireplace lit itself at the house-elf's wave.

The room matched the door. A narrow and dusty bed, a desk with a straight wooden chair, a bookshelf with a few odd volumes lying at forlorn angles, and a huge and forbidding wardrobe were all the furniture to be found, though the house-elf was removing the dust as his companion watched. "The washroom is there, across the hall," he said, pointing. "And Master and Mistress have ordered—that is, they have asked—they do not want—" He broke off, twisting a bit of pillowcase uncomfortably.

"They want me to stay in my rooms," the child filled in. "Not to go wandering around."

The house-elf nodded, an air of relief on his bulge-eyed face.

"Will I have my meals here?"

Another nod, and the house-elf sidled closer, glancing about as though to make sure no one was listening. "Master and Mistress do not use the library," he said quietly. "And only Mistress goes to the gardens, and always in the mornings. Never the afternoons."

"Thanks." A small smile crept onto the child's face, but lost its hold and fell away after only a second or two. "Isn't there anyone else here at all? Anyone besides me and you and my aunt and uncle?"

The house-elf fidgeted. "Master has ordered that question not to be answered," he said, after another swift look over his shoulder.

"That means there is and you can't tell me about them," the child interpreted. "No, stop that!" A pale-skinned hand, strong for its size, caught the house-elf's on its way to punch his forehead. "You didn't tell me anything you weren't supposed to. I'm just very good at figuring things out. Dad used to call me his little detective..." Tears welled up and were blinked swiftly back. "I'll be all right now," the speaker finished in a voice which only shook a little, releasing the house-elf's hand. "Thank you for bringing me here."

"House-elves does not need to be thanked," objected the representative of that race.

Another smile, this one lasting a bit longer. "Maybe not, but Mum always said they liked it just as much as we do, only they can't let on because it isn't proper. Was she right?"

The house-elf looked both ways, grinned, and nodded. His companion's smile broadened into a matching grin. "I thought so." The hand was thrust out once more, this time at waist-height. "Friends?"

"Friends," the house-elf agreed, reaching up to clasp the hand.

"Thanks."

They shook on it, three times, before the house-elf released his grip and indicated the door with a jerk of his head. "There is still work to be done tonight," he said regretfully. "The little master to tend, and..." His eyes widened even further than usual as he realized what he'd said, and he punched himself hard in the nose and vanished, a lingering "_Bad_ D—" cut off by the loud crack of his disappearance.

The child stood very still, looking at the place where the house-elf had been. A longing for home welled up, and was ruthlessly suppressed. This _was_ home now, and would be for the next three years, thanks to the war.

War had meant Dad had to be careful about where he went and what he did. War had meant Mum didn't ever talk about her family the way Dad did. And now war meant there was no Mum and no Dad anymore, and never would be again. There was only a white marble stone in a churchyard, and a man and a woman who seemed to be carved out of white marble themselves, saying in smooth lying voices that of _course_ they would take on this great responsibility, for the sake of those who were gone.

"So they put me in a little room somewhere and say they never want to see me." Hands balled up into fists. "Because Dad had 'dirty blood' and Mum 'married below her station.'" The words came out in a low snarl. "They won't even let their house-elf tell me about my own cousin! Do they think I'll make him dirty too? Do they think—"

Understanding arrived, and with it a great idea, which swept away the anger and the sorrow it had been masking and left only the excitement of an adventure waiting to happen. "They _do_. They _do_ think that. And you know what?" the child asked her reflection in the mirror on the door of the wardrobe. "You know what? They're right."

For the first time since her parents had died, Nymphadora Tonks' hair turned a bright bubblegum pink.

* * *

She hadn't expected him to be a baby.

It was probably better this way, Tonks told herself, peering through the hinges of the door as Dobby tried to quiet the shrieking toddler standing up and clutching the bars of the ornate crib in the plush room beyond. A boy her own age would have been troublesome, he would have whined and asked questions, he might even have told on her to his parents. A baby wouldn't do that on purpose, and she could teach him how to keep his mouth shut so he wouldn't blab on accident.

But she'd still been expecting someone her own age.

She smiled as she recalled the reason why, safely installed on her bookshelf alongside her other precious mementoes of her father. If you looked past the different ages, the magic, and the trifling fact that her own aunt was still alive, the stories were scarily similar. But the secret in this story was going to be not outside but right here, and in her own smaller room three halls away.

And it was time to start.

She stepped around the door, into view of the two occupants of the room. Dobby made a little whimpering sound as he saw her, audible because the boy in the crib had stopped crying in surprise.

"No," Tonks said firmly, forestalling Dobby's hand on its way to his ear. "You didn't tell me anything. I heard him crying and came to see all by myself. What's his name? How old is he?"

Dobby gulped. He was obviously less than convinced by the eight-year-old logic. "This is Master Draco, miss," he said shakily. "Master Draco was sixteen months old yesterday."

"Draco? Really?" Tonks shook her head, disgusted. "Aunt Cissy's as bad as Mum."

She turned to look fully at her cousin for the first time. He favored her Uncle Lucius strongly, but that wasn't his fault, and he was watching her with a wide-eyed fascination that made her think he hadn't seen many other people in his life. Of course, it might just be that he'd never seen a girl with pink hair before. She concentrated hard and changed it to lime green, then to navy blue.

"Wotcher, Draco," she said, smiling up at him.

Draco's eyes got even wider than they had been, and he pointed at her and said something unintelligible to Dobby. The house-elf had backed up several paces, watching both of them nervously. "Miss," he said, his tone pleading. "Miss, Dobby will be in very bad trouble if this is found out..."

"So don't let it get found out." Tonks kicked the bar under the near side of the crib, and it fell, allowing her to reach up her arms to Draco and lift him down to the floor. "I'll do my part hiding it if you'll do yours. Half and half. Thirds, when he gets old enough." She looked down. "I can't walk if you sit on my foot like that," she informed her cousin, wiggling said body part. "Off."

Draco giggled. He was obviously under the impression he'd found a fun game to play with his new friend.

"Draco, you have to get off now..." Tonks stopped, scowling. "I can't keep calling him that. It's stupid."

"Does Miss need some help with the little master?" Dobby asked delicately, coming forward.

"Yes, please. I want to get him back to my room, so I need to get him off my—"

Tonks stopped. Dobby's hand had touched hers, his other hand had gone against Draco's shoulder, and there had been a feeling like Dad taking her Side-Along-Apparating, and—

"Wow," she said, looking around at her own room. "Thanks."

Dobby bobbed a quick bow and disappeared once more. Draco pointed at the place where the house-elf had been and said something that sounded impressed.

"Yes, he's very fast, isn't he?" Tonks extracted her foot from her cousin's hold and sat down beside him. "First things first," she said. "You need another name. I'm Tonks, because that's my surname, but yours is Malfoy and that's just as bad..." She frowned in thought, making her lips droop further and further down until they dangled past her chin. Draco laughed and grabbed for them, and Tonks pulled them in hastily. "Whoops. Can't make anything too long right now, I have to keep it all nice and short—"

At this point, Dobby returned, carrying a truly immense load of soft objects. He had apparently decided that the need to make his little master comfortable overrode his master's unspoken command to put the unwanted newcomer into a bare and unpleasant room. Within a few minutes, a soft rug covered the floor, the bed had a new duvet and several extra pillows, and cushions formed a nest of sorts in front of the fire, just the right size for two cousins. Tonks was making Draco laugh again by sending her hair through its usual variation of colors, while trying to catch the thought that had run away on Dobby's arrival. It was something about being short, she was sure of it—

"Ah-ha!"

Draco gave her an inquisitive look at the exclamation. She swooped down and planted her hands on either side of him, looming over him and making a stern face. "Your name is not Draco anymore," she said in the deepest and most impressive voice she could manage. "From now on, your name is Mal. You understand?" She shifted her weight onto one hand, lifted the other, and poked the little boy in the chest. "Mal. That's your name now. Mal."

The boy frowned, confused. "Maa?" he said questioningly.

"That's right, Mal!" Tonks scooped her cousin up and swung him high into the air, making him shriek with glee. "You can be Draco for everybody else, but for me you're Mal!"

"Maa!" The name seemed to find favor with its new possessor. "Maa!" He went into a paroxysm of giggles as Tonks tickled his side, but then stilled and looked thoughtful. "Uh?" he said, thrusting a hand against her chest.

"Tonks," she said firmly, putting her hand over his. "That's me. I'm Tonks."

The boy frowned, processing the information. "Toss," he tried after a moment.

"Toss? You want me to toss you? Okay!" Tonks scrambled to her feet, hoisting her cousin up with her, and launched him across the room towards her bed. Her mum's silent admonition against recklessness sounded in her ears just a second too late, overlapped by her dad's praise of her ability to throw things precisely where she wanted them.

She would always miss her parents, Tonks realized as her living missile landed dead center on the bed with a happy squeal, but they would always be with her in what they had taught her. And now she wouldn't be lonely, not ever again. Not now that she had Mal.

But Mal had such a lot to learn. Where should they start?

The thought she'd been having in the hallway came back to her, and she grinned. It was perfect.

She got up and fetched Mal from the bed, setting him down on the cushions by the fire without his making more than a token protest that he wanted to go flying through the air again. Then she went to the bookshelf, and came back with a thick, glossy hardcover, settling herself down beside the little boy, who was now rubbing his eyes sleepily.

"We're going to have a bedtime story," she told him, opening the book. "This was my dad's favorite book. He loved to read it to me. It's about a girl like me and a boy like you—cousins, who live in a great big house almost all alone—and their secret, just like we have. They have to work hard to keep it secret and make it strong, but it gives them wonderful things when they do. They even have a magic friend, like Dobby is for us." She yawned. "It's late, so we won't read too much tonight. Just a little ways."

Mal murmured an answer and nestled against Tonks' side as she opened the book to the first page. Her free arm, without her noticing, snaked around the little boy, as though it were the most natural thing in the world that they should snuggle in front of a fire and read a story together.

"Chapter One," she read aloud. "There Is No One Left."

* * *

When Dobby returned, he found them asleep there together, the book lying beside them on the carpet. He wrung his hands with worry, wondering if he should take his little master away from here, if he should tell the master everything that had happened, if he should make sure the new girl did not see the little master again, but in the end he only fetched the duvet from Tonks' bed and covered them with it.

He knew the stories about his mistress's sister, how headstrong and self-willed she had been, and he was seeing now that she had passed all of that on to her daughter. And the master had ordered him to keep the girl in her rooms and to say nothing to her about the little master, and he was obeying both those orders right now. Besides, the little master had not slept so soundly in months.

What his master did not know, Dobby decided, would not hurt him.

It would be nearly ten years before he realized how thoroughly untrue this was.

* * *

_What are little boys made of?  
A book and a game and a brand-new name—  
That's what little boys are made of!_

* * *

(And so it begins. If you think I'm doing well, or could use some improvement, please let me know. Being specific is always good. Rudeness and profanity are not welcome. Thank you.)


	2. In Common

(I disclaim the short excerpts from _Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone._)

* * *

Harry Potter stepped up onto the fitting stool in Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, glancing at the boy on the other stool with the pale, pointed face.

"Hello," said the boy. "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," Harry said.

"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," said the boy. His voice's drawling tone was tinged with sarcasm. "I don't know why, it's not as though she can buy it for me, but anything that gets them out of my hair is all right with me. The way they've been carrying on this past month, you'd think no one ever went away to school before."

Harry was reminded of Dudley for a moment, but rejected the comparison; Dudley seemed to enjoy the way Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon fawned on him, and took every opportunity to milk their grief over losing him to Smeltings for more and better toys.

"Where're your parents, then?" the boy went on.

"They're dead," Harry said shortly.

"Sorry." The boy looked chagrined. "Put my foot in it properly there, didn't I? Can we pretend that never happened and try it again?"

"If you like." Harry turned a little at Madam Malkin's tap on his leg.

The other boy cleared his throat and stood up straighter. "So, who're you here with, then?" he asked in the same tone in which he'd inquired after Harry's parents.

"His name's Hagrid." Movement outside the store caught Harry's eye. "There he is," he said, pointing to Hagrid, who was standing just beyond the glass storefront and holding up two large ice creams with a grin.

"Do you know him?" the boy asked with interest.

"I only met him today," Harry admitted. "He brought my Hogwarts letter. I think he said he was the groundskeeper there."

"He is, and I hear he's terrific." The boy's gray eyes had gone unfocused, as though he were looking not through the window at Diagon Alley but into a mysterious world only he could see. "My cousin left Hogwarts this year. She says he has a little house all his own on the grounds, right on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, and he knows _everything_ about the animals that live there." He blinked once or twice and looked back at Harry. "Did you say he brought your Hogwarts letter? Why didn't it come by owl?"

"It did, at first, but my uncle kept getting rid of them."

"Getting rid of them?" The boy frowned. "You mean like throwing them away? Why would he do that?"

Harry shrugged. "Maybe because he didn't want me to know I had magic. He and my aunt never told me, not about Hogwarts or my parents or anything."

The boy grimaced. "Let me guess. They think it's dirty and unnatural, they don't want 'that sort' anywhere near them, and they thought if they just raised you right they could stop you ever finding out 'that sort' existed?"

"Do you know them?" Harry asked in surprise.

"Not... exactly." The boy was smiling a twisted little smile. "But I know people a lot like them."

"That's you done, my dear," said Madam Malkin from around Harry's knees.

"Wait for me?" the other boy called as Harry hopped down from the stool. "I'd love to meet Hagrid if you're not in a hurry, and I shouldn't be long."

"I will," Harry called back. Despite the awkward moment near the beginning of their conversation, he found he rather liked the stranger.

"Who were yeh talkin' ter in there?" Hagrid asked as Harry came out of the store.

"I..." Harry stopped as he took the ice cream from Hagrid's hand. "I never heard his name. But he asked if I'd wait for him so he could meet you—he said he had a cousin who just left Hogwarts and thought you were terrific."

Hagrid beamed and took an extra-large lick of his ice cream. "Fer a young man o' discernment, I think we kin wait," he said.

Harry buried a smile in his chocolate-raspberry cone.

The ice creams were only about halfway finished when the pale-faced boy, his hair a silvery blond in the daylight, emerged from Madam Malkin's. Harry, watching Hagrid's face, saw the faintest of frowns on it, as though the big man were trying to remember something he'd known a long time ago. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothin', nothin'," Hagrid mumbled. "Jus' thinkin'..."

The boy strolled over to Harry and Hagrid. "Settle something for me," he said to Hagrid, looking up (and up, and up) at him. "Skele-Gro or Engorgement Charm?"

Hagrid chuckled. "Neither, an' tell yer cousin ter quit guessin'. She'll never get it."

"So you do know who I am!"

"Came ter me when I saw yeh in the light." Hagrid reached down and ruffled the boy's hair. "Yeh look jus' like yer dad at yer age—"

"Does everyone have to say that?" the boy demanded of the air. "Really, is it necessary?"

"—an' so does Harry," Hagrid finished over this. "His dad, o' course, not yours."

"Thanks for clearing that—" The boy stopped in mid-tirade. "Did you say Harry?"

Hagrid nodded, a smug smile becoming visible behind his beard.

"And his parents are dead... oh, Merlin's fuzzy nightshirt." A pale hand ran through blond hair. "I just made an arse out of myself in front of Harry bloody Potter."

Harry wondered if this would be the wrong time to point out that this was the most fun he'd had since he'd seen Dudley's pig's tail, but decided to save that information for later. "I didn't think it was so bad," he said instead, extending his non-ice-cream-holding hand. "Pleased to meet you."

"And you." The other boy shook his hand, grinning ruefully. "I'm about to get my punishment in any case. My name's Draco Malfoy. Laugh and get it over with," he added at the look on Harry's face, "and then call me Mal. Everyone does, except my parents."

"Mal it is," said Hagrid, shaking hands in his turn. "Though 'Draco' isn' so bad, compared ter some I've heard. Like yer cousin's."

"True enough." Mal laughed. "At least my first name isn't longer than my last!"

"I resemble that remark," said a young woman who had just emerged from the crowd.

"_Tonks!_" Mal spun and hugged the speaker tightly. "Tonks, look who it is!"

Harry stared. He couldn't help it. The young woman looked normal enough for the most part—her heart-shaped face was as pale as Mal's, her eyes a bright and lively brown, her dark red robes held shut with a clasp in the shape of a yellow-petaled flower with a black center—but he had never before met anyone with hair the color of an aubergine.

"Whoever it is, his ice cream's melting," she was saying now. "Anyone home in there?"

"Huh? Oh. Right." Harry attended to the drips leaking down the sides of his cone while the young woman greeted Hagrid jovially, mentioning something about unicorns that Harry didn't quite catch but which made Hagrid blush furiously and sent Mal into convulsions of laughter. He made a mental note to ask about it later.

"So who is it, then?" she asked suddenly, turning back towards Harry. "Someone important and famous? You know my dear uncle won't settle for anything less."

"My _dear_ father can take himself and..." Mal made an obscene gesture. "But actually it is. Nymphadora Tonks, and you'll want to forget that even more than you did mine," he added as an aside to Harry, "meet Harry Potter."

"Are you!" Tonks beamed and pressed Harry's hand, looking him up and down. "Did you know, you look just like your dad? I mean, I never met him, but I've seen pictures—he was one of the best Aurors there was, even with how young he died—"

"Best what?"

"Aurors," Hagrid repeated. "Dark wizard catchers. Tonks'll be one someday."

"If I make it through apprenticeship." Tonks grimaced. "I keep tripping over everything I see."

"I'd think you'd have more of a problem tripping over the things you don't see," Mal remarked.

Tonks punched him in the shoulder. "Who asked you? Harry, listen, if you wanted to see some of your dad's old case files, they're not classified, I can pull them out and get you copies. How about it?"

"Really?" Harry could barely believe his ears. "Sure, I'd love that! Thanks!"

"They're kind of dry reading," Tonks cautioned. "Lots of words to say not very much. But if you're sure, I'll send them along sometime this week."

"Better tell the owl ter take 'em straight ter his room," Hagrid warned. "His relatives don' like bein' reminded—look out!"

Harry spun, looking for the danger, but saw only a peaceful-seeming Diagon Alley. Tonks and Mal, he saw as he turned back, had vanished.

"Door o' th' bookshop, Harry," muttered Hagrid out of one side of his mouth. "Use th' corner o' yer eye, an' don' stare."

"Who is that?" Harry whispered, watching the long-haired, haughty wizard polish an imaginary speck from the snake-shaped knob of his opera cane.

A snort came from behind Hagrid. "Don't you see the resemblance?" asked Mal's voice, half-humorous and half-bitter. "That is my one and only father. And he would have a litter of knittens if he saw me with Tonks. He threw her out of the house the day she turned seventeen."

Tonks peeped around Hagrid's leg and winked at Harry. "You see, you're not the only one with relatives who don't like you," she said. "I'd best be on my way. Watch for my owl; I'll send it first thing tomorrow. So long, Hagrid. Take care, you." She gave Mal a brief, one-armed hug, then slipped away and was lost among a passing group of chattering witches.

Mal watched her go before turning back to Harry. "Mind if I owl too?" he asked. "I mean, it won't get you in trouble?"

Harry shook his head. "Not now that I've got my own room. How do I write back?"

"I can ask mine to wait for a reply." Mal made a face. "Suppose you'll have to use my full name to address it."

"Nah, a good post owl'll find yeh anyway," said Hagrid. "Besides, if it's yer owl ter start with..."

Mal laughed. "Didn't think of that. Well, see you both at Hogwarts, I suppose." He turned and disappeared into the crowd almost as skillfully as Tonks.

"See you," Harry called after him.

"An' jus' like tha', yeh've made a pair o' new friends," Hagrid said, grinning down at him. "Gettin' ter be a good day yet?"

Harry grinned back. "It was already a good day. Now it's a great one. What's next?"

"Think we'll leave yer schoolbooks till th' shop's a bit less hazardous ter our health," said Hagrid with a poisonous glance towards the elder Malfoy, who was still decorating the front of Flourish and Blotts. "How 'bout th' Apothecary? Yeh'll need Potions supplies..."

* * *

"Father, may I speak with you?"

"Certainly, Draco." Lucius sat back in his chair. Supper was over, and Narcissa had gone out to a musical evening at a friend's house, leaving the Malfoy men alone together. "What is it?"

"I was thinking today at Diagon Alley." Draco traced a bit of the carving on the arm of his own chair with a finger. "Harry Potter's about my age, isn't he?"

Lucius cast his mind back eleven years, to the heady and exciting days of his Master's ascendance, and the talk he'd heard at second- or third-hand about those of his enemies who worked in the Auror Office. "You are a month or two the elder, but yes."

"So he'll be in my year at Hogwarts."

"He will."

"Good." Draco seemed engrossed in the carving. "Do you think the Dark Lord will ever return?" he asked idly after a moment.

"That is a difficult question to answer," Lucius admitted. "I want to say yes, but our Master has been gone for almost as many years as you have lived. Still, he told us with certainty that though he might be defeated for a time, he could not truly die, and I have never known him to be wrong. So yes, my son. I do believe the Dark Lord will return someday, perhaps even before you are a man."

"And when he comes back, he'll want Harry Potter."

It was not a question, but Lucius answered it anyway. "He will."

Draco looked up, a smile lighting his face. "What if I knew where he was and how to get at him?" he asked. "What if I could tell you, and the Dark Lord, everything about him and his friends?"

"How would you do that?" Lucius asked, intrigued. "Become his friend yourself?"

"Not quite." Draco sat up straighter, his eyes bright. "He might suspect, or some of the teachers might, that I didn't mean well. But what if they thought I wasn't important, and only noticed me to pity me?"

"Pity you?" Lucius stared at his son in astonishment. "Who could pity you, and why?"

"Because my parents are disappointed in me," Draco said with a grin. "For being sorted into Hufflepuff."


	3. Sorting It Out

"Hufflepuff?" Lucius repeated blankly. "Draco, what—"

"There, you see?" Draco interrupted eagerly. "You're confused and angry, you don't understand how it could happen. That's what everyone will expect. It'll be a scandal, the talk of the town, what a disgrace the Malfoys' son is to his family, being sorted into Hufflepuff of all Houses. You and Mother can talk about how I never seemed like that kind and you're so terribly disappointed, maybe even send me a Howler about it. I'll be embarrassed and shamed in front of everyone." He leaned forward. "Or that's what they'll think is happening."

Catching on to what his son was insinuating, Lucius began to smile. "Go on."

"What's really happening is that I'm listening to everything. I'm watching everyone. And they'll all let me, because they'll be so sorry for the poor little Hufflepuff." Draco widened his eyes and let his lower lip tremble. "I wish I were a brave Gryffindor like you, Harry," he whimpered, hunching his shoulders as if he expected to be hit. "Maybe then Father and Mother would be proud of me..."

Lucius burst out laughing at the pose, and at the ease with which his son threw it off and straightened up in his chair, looking pleased and proud. "A worthy scheme," he said when he could speak again. "Something very like it has worked before. But what if you are not sorted into Hufflepuff?"

"Then I suppose I shall have to survive in Slytherin." Draco laid a hand over his heart. "A dreadful fate indeed, but for the sake of my name and family, I shall fight my way through."

Another laugh escaped Lucius, this time at the mock-sacrifical expression on Draco's face. "I fear your clever mind will doom you to that dreadful fate after all," he warned. "But if you could carry off such a scheme successfully, it might make a great difference for the Dark Lord when he does return."

Draco's eyes gleamed. "That's all I want, Father," he said with firm sincerity. "That's all I've ever wanted."

"As it should be," Lucius said, allowing a note of pardonable pride to creep into his voice. "Run away, now, and practice your wandwork. Hufflepuff or not, you must not be found lacking in the basic skills of a wizard."

"I never will be, sir." Draco slid from his chair and made his father an elegant bow, then was gone.

Sitting back in his chair, Lucius pondered the ways of fate. He had not wanted to take in his wife's disgraceful niece all those years ago, but Narcissa had convinced him that even their own society would frown on the abandonment of a half-blood child, and she would be no trouble to them as long as Dobby was properly instructed in her care. The words had been a prophecy; the girl had remained quietly in her own rooms for three years, learning from books what she needed to know, then departed for Hogwarts without mishap and there been Sorted into the same House as her Mudblood father.

_And I have no doubt it is she who is tangentially behind my son's fine idea of today, for though they have never met, he knows of her existence. Where else could he have conceived of passing himself off as such a lowly creature as a Hufflepuff? _

* * *

Mal shot through his own bedroom door, slammed it, and pressed his fingers against three darkened spots on the wood, murmuring "Sett" under his breath. This done, he leapt straight up into the air, yowling a savage victory yell, and performed a war-dance around his bed to the chant of "Did it, did it, did it—"

Step one of the Great Plan was complete.

* * *

Tonks was sprawled on her bed in the tiny, crowded flat she shared with three other Auror apprentices, trying to concentrate on her Fundamentals of Concealment homework, when a loud double crack sounded and a folded scrap of parchment fluttered down on top of her textbook. Eagerly, she snatched it up and flipped it open.

_Wool successfully pulled over eyes. _

It was unsigned, but both the handwriting and the method of delivery told her from whom it had come. She buried her face in her pillow and let out a whoop of delight, coming up with her cheeks as pink as her hair, and the textbook went unregarded for several minutes as she indulged in fantasies about Mal at Hogwarts and after.

"I'll've been qualified four years when he leaves school," she reckoned out loud. "That ought to be long enough to get started on buying a place for us. Wonder what he'll end up doing? Whatever it is, he'll go far." No one who had faced her in a duel would have believed the tenderness of the smile that touched her lips now. "Can't stop that boy with an Unforgivable."

And then, of course, there was Harry Potter to be reckoned with. He and Mal seemed to have hit it off, and there'd be trouble homing in on The Boy Who Lived or her name wasn't Nymphadora Tonks. "Which, thank you forever Mother dearest, it is." Some of the older Aurors didn't believe Everyone-Knew-Who was gone for good, and if he came back...

"Tight spot for my little Colin then," Tonks murmured. To one another, they sometimes used the names of the cousins from her beloved book. "Family going one way, and friends—and me—the other." She lowered her forehead onto the open pages of her textbook. "I didn't want that for him," she said fretfully, as if she'd been accused of it. "I didn't want him to have to pick. I just wanted him to know me, and maybe care about me."

But from caring about her, it had been a short step to accepting her principles, and before Tonks had known what was happening, she'd found herself saddled with a small and determined rebel against ten generations of pure magical blood. If being pureblood meant thinking his Mary was bad, Mal had declared with a stamp of his foot, then he _wouldn't_ be pureblood any more, so there!

She'd left for Hogwarts only a few months after that day, but her efforts to teach Mal how to think for himself had already borne fruit. Dobby became the courier of letters from Malfoy Manor to a particular cellar dormitory, Apparating and Disapparating in the same moment so as never to be caught away from his rightful place, and Tonks wrote copious letters back by the school owls. In the holidays, after Dobby had collected her from the train and brought her in the back door so that her aunt and uncle wouldn't have to look at her, she knew she only had to wait a few minutes before a cheerful whistle in the hall announced the arrival of her very own boy.

"He won't have it easy, these next few years," she said quietly to herself. "But he wouldn't want it easy. He likes fighting for what he wants, and if it can be got, he'll get it."

And with the state of affairs satisfactorily put into words, Tonks went back to her book.

* * *

Mal's first letter arrived in the beak of an imposing eagle owl the day after Harry's trip to Diagon Alley. It was satisfactorily long and full of details about the magical world, though with a great many things in it Harry didn't quite understand. What, for example, were Hufflepuff and Slytherin, and why did Mal prefer the one so much over the other? As for Quidditch, Hagrid had mentioned it in passing, so Harry knew at least that it was a sport and not a new kind of pudding or robe-fastener, but the technical details that filled a good half of Mal's second page baffled him, and he had to write politely nonsensical answers to the questions the other boy had asked.

The second letter, brought back by Hedwig, was highly apologetic. "Tonks tore strips out of me for writing all that rot about Quidditch and the school houses," Mal scribbled in his half-legible handwriting. "Said it was like you asking me about football and bus timetables. Quidditch can wait until I see you on the train, it's easier to explain face to face, but the houses I can at least clear up now..."

Harry spent more than a few idle hours over the next days wondering what house he and Mal would be in. The brief summations Mal had provided had given him plenty of insight into why his friend felt he'd rather leave Hogwarts the same night he came than be sorted into Slytherin, though Harry wondered a bit if Hufflepuff were really the right choice for Mal either. To be going so firmly against his family's traditions seemed quite brave, which sounded like Gryffindor, and the way in which he'd figured out how to get around his parents' prohibitions against seeing Tonks argued for the intelligence needed for Ravenclaw.

A house for himself was an even knottier problem. All Harry could be sure of was that he didn't want Slytherin; "ambitious and clever" wasn't anything he'd ever been or wanted to be. Ravenclaw also seemed iffy, as his grades had always hovered around the upper end of average. Hard-working he was, but only because he didn't have a choice, and he'd never been in any situation he considered dangerous enough to know if he were brave or not...

These wonderings came to an abrupt end one morning with the arrival of a thick envelope addressed to Harry in an unfamiliar spiky handwriting. "Sorry for the delay," read the note on top of the bundle of parchments, "but because they were for personal use, I had to do the copying spells myself in my spare time. Don't lose them—I don't want to go through that again. Yours, N. Tonks."

They were the records of the cases on which Harry's father had worked as an Auror.

Textbooks were abandoned and Mal's letters received only cursory answers for a week and a half as Harry pored over the terse sentences, relishing every one. He'd learned from Hagrid that his father's name, like his own middle, had been James, so that references to "J.P." didn't baffle him as they once would have, but "S.B." was an unknown. All Harry could discover about this mysterious person was that he'd been James Potter's partner through their three years of apprenticeship and their one year as licensed Aurors, and that he and James had saved each other's lives on several occasions. Hagrid would know, Harry decided finally, and made a mental note to ask when he got to Hogwarts.

The real treasure of the records, though, were the few handwritten notes in the margins, obviously done by the people the records were about. One corner, to Harry's astonishment and delight, bore a sketch of a rampant lion with the words "Gryffindors rule" underneath in a handwriting with tall capitals, very like Harry's own. It was repeated in several other places through the parchments, while other notes were so badly smeared they could hardly be read, and slanted backwards to boot. Harry gave up on deciphering these after spending several minutes trying to read one word and coming up only with the unsatisfactory answer of "Elvendork".

_But I can read that first writing, my dad's, and I know what he used to do for a living. Uncle Vernon can't ever say that he was good for nothing again. _The knowledge gave Harry the same warmth of happiness in his chest he'd felt when Hagrid had told him he was a wizard._ I know his name now, and Mum's, and that they were brave, and that I look like them both. I'm even going to their school in September. _

_And I already have a friend._

_Maybe I'll make some more. _


	4. The Right Sort

Mal peered around platform nine and three-quarters anxiously, hoping he looked like he was sizing up his fellow students and trying to figure out which of them he could safely toady up to and which he should avoid altogether. In reality, he was looking for two particular people, one of whom he hoped he'd see and the other he hoped he wouldn't.

_Father'll break his twigs if he sees Tonks here. But she knows that. She wrote last night and wished me good luck, and that's all I need. _

He set his cousin aside for the moment and resumed looking for the person he knew should be there. _Hope Harry's relatives didn't decide last-minute he couldn't go after all..._

"Know who he is?" a voice from a few people down caught his ear. The speaker was clearly a Weasley, and Mal frowned as he ran through the litany Tonks had recited to him almost a year before.

_Bill the curse-breaker, Charlie the Quidditch star, Percy the prat, and then come Fred'n'George the twins. That's got to be one of them. _

"Who?" asked Mrs. Weasley, holding her daughter Ginny's hand.

"_Harry Potter!_"

_That answers that question._ Mal grinned inwardly and tuned out the rest of the conversation. _I'll find him once we leave. Which will be— _He looked up at the clock. _Any minute now. I should get on board... _

"Good morning, Lucius."

"Ah, good morning, Simon." Mal's father shook hands with Mr. Nott. "How is Theodore? Excited for Hogwarts?"

"Decidedly." Mr. Nott bowed to Mother, who inclined her head in return. "And Draco?"

"A bit overwhelmed by it all, but well enough."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Mal ducked his head to avoid making eye contact as Mr. Nott gave him a fish-eyed stare. "Shall I show him where Theodore is sitting? He might enjoy the company of the right sort of people on the ride."

"How kind of you, Simon," Mother said. "Draco, come here."

"I don't want company," muttered Mal when Mother bent down to kiss him. "Not that kind."

"Then make your excuses and leave. You know how it is done." Mother cupped the side of his face in her cool hand, making him shiver. "And I know what you are planning. All I ask is that you give us no reason to be truly ashamed of you."

"I won't." Mal pressed his mother's hand between his shoulder and cheek, then let it go. "See you at Christmas."

"I expect good reports," Father said, waving a playfully chiding finger near Mal's nose. "In _all_ ways."

"Yes, sir," Mal mumbled, lowering his head again.

"Hurry up, boy!" Mr. Nott urged as a whistle sounded from the engine. "You don't want to be left behind!"

_If it means I don't have to sit with your cleverer-than-thou brat all the way to Hogwarts, maybe I do. _

But Mal ran for the train anyway, and accepted Mr. Nott's hand up the stairs, leaning out once he was safely at the top to wave one last time to Mother before he ducked inside.

_Father can fool himself I was waving to him too if he likes. I wasn't. _

He turned around and stifled a squawk of surprise.

"You didn't think I was going to let you go off to Hogwarts without saying a proper goodbye, did you?" said the grinning person wearing Mr. Nott's robes.

Mal grinned back and threw his arms around Tonks, squeezing as hard as he could. "Oof," she protested, poking him in the ribs. "No killing me when I just got away with tricking your parents!"

"How did you know you could?" Mal asked, releasing his cousin enough that he could look up at her.

"Watched him." Tonks made back-and-forth motions with a finger. "Saw him show up, saw him bung his brat on the train, saw him leave before you got here. Fixed my robes to look like his, put his looks on, and got to say goodbye in person after all." She rubbed the top of his head. "How's your face?"

"Don't do that," protested Mal, ducking away. "It's fine. Barely hurts at all anymore."

"Did you remember that cleansing potion? Going to be hard to explain infections if you get them."

"In my trunk."

"Good." Tonks sighed. "I wish we could've had a year together, but maybe it's better like this. You don't want to get known as my tagalong."

"No, I'm trying for that with Harry." Mal hunched his shoulders, shuffled his feet, and glanced up through his lashes at Tonks. "This look scared enough?"

She flicked him on the ear. "Don't overdo it. I'd better get back, I have afternoon duty today. Have a good time."

"Not a problem."

One more hug, and Mal stepped back to give Tonks room to Disapparate. She winked at him before spinning in place and vanishing with a soft pop.

The boy who had just come through the door at the other end of the train car stopped dead. "Who was that?" he asked, staring at the place where Tonks had been.

Mal was about to give a dismissive answer when he noticed the boy's height, and the red hair which the dimness of the car had hidden from his first glance. "Friend of mine," he said, coming forward a few steps. "You're..." He counted on his fingers, passing the point where he'd stopped earlier. "Ron, right? Ron Weasley?"

Ron gaped at him. "How'd you know?"

"Your face made the Weasley bit obvious, and my cousin used to date one of your brothers. Or she's still dating him, I forget which. That was her, by the way." Mal nodded over his shoulder. "My parents don't like her, think she's the wrong sort for me to go around with, so she had to sneak onto the train to say goodbye."

"What's-her-name Tonks, with the..." Ron waved a hand above his head. "The hair?"

"That's her."

"Then you're Mal." Ron held out his hand. "She's mentioned you once or twice."

"A minute," Mal finished, shaking the offered hand. "Every time she visits."

Ron grimaced. "You heard them, then."

"What, your brothers? I think the whole platform heard them." Mal reconsidered this. "But they can't have, because if they had they'd all be down here looking for—"

"I _know_," Ron cut him off. "I can't believe he's really here! In our year, even!"

"He can't believe he's here either."

"You know him?"

"We met at Diagon Alley. Been writing all month."

"Wow." Ron peered through the window of a compartment. "And he's right in there, and everywhere else is full..." He turned an imploring look back on Mal. "Do you think he'd mind?"

Mal bit back a laugh. "I'm not his agent, you don't have to ask my permission. But I can tell you he doesn't bite."

"Thanks for the tip." Squaring his shoulders, Ron swallowed. "Here goes."

He slid the door open and entered.

_Think I'll give them a minute to get acquainted. _Mal leaned against the wall and sighed in contentment. _Hogwarts, Hogwarts, really truly Hogwarts. And really truly friends to go with. _

He'd made his first goal. There were plenty more to go before he could send his Seeker after the Snitch, but he knew he'd get there eventually.

_In the meantime, I'll play the game for all I'm worth. _

_Because that's what the right sort of people do._

* * *

Lunchtime had come and gone, Chocolate Frog cards had been exhibited and swapped, and Harry was trying to make Scabbers eat the remainder of Ron's sprouts-flavored bean when the door of their compartment opened. "Have you seen a toad?" asked the brown-haired girl in Hogwarts robes on the other side.

"No," Mal said before either of the others could speak. "Have you seen a one-eyed snake?"

The girl frowned. "No."

Mal let his hand rest on the zipper of his trousers. "Want to?"

"That's disgusting," the girl snapped, and slammed the door shut again.

Harry dodged as Ron sprayed Cauldron Cake across the compartment laughing. Mal took a bow. "Thank you, thank you, I'm here all week."

"Wonder who that was," Harry said, looking after the girl.

"Don't know, but I bet she's Muggleborn." Mal fished another Pumpkin Pasty out of the pile. "She wears her robes like she's not used to them, and if she were half-blood she'd know toads always turn up again..."

He became aware that Harry and Ron were both looking at him oddly. "What?"

"I didn't know that," Ron said. "And I'm a pureblood."

"Ever keep toads?"

Ron shook his head.

"I have. One got loose in the house once for a whole year and eventually turned up in my bathtub. That's how I know."

"A toad got loose in your house and you didn't find it for a year?" Harry said skeptically.

"In a house the size of his, it's possible," said Ron.

"How do you know how big my house is?"

"It's got the word 'Manor' in its name. I don't need to be a genius to know it's big."

"And it is," Mal admitted. "We could play Quidditch in the ballroom if someone took out the chandelier first."

"What is Quidditch?" Harry asked over Ron's admiring sigh. "You said you'd explain on the train."

"You don't know Quidditch?" Ron blurted, then shook his head. "Right, Muggles, never mind. You want to start, Mal, or should I?"

"You go on, I'll chime in when I have something to say."

"Right." Ron shaped an oval with his hands. "So there's seven players on a side, three Chasers, one Keeper, two Beaters, and one Seeker..."

* * *

Mal tried to join in the Hall-wide laughter as Neville jogged back to Professor McGonagall to return the Sorting Hat, but his throat was too tight to let anything get out. What if the Hat only saw his name and his bloodline? What if it picked up on his desire to make something of himself and didn't notice how and why he wanted it? Would it put him in—

"SLYTHERIN!"

Mal's knees nearly went before he realized the Hat was announcing the Sorting of Morag MacDougal, a heavyset girl he knew slightly from parties. She nodded curtly to Professor McGonagall and went to her place.

"Malfoy, Draco!" McGonagall read off her list.

Harry flashed a quick thumbs-up. Ron punched his shoulder. Mal gave them both a smile, though he knew it looked more like a death grin, and turned to walk to the stool.

"Calm yourself," McGonagall murmured out the corner of her mouth when he was seated. "This won't hurt."

_Must be obvious I'm scared. Well, it's good for the image anyway. _Mal jerked his head in an acknowledging nod, and Professor McGonagall dropped the Sorting Hat onto it.

"A-ha," a small voice said into his ear. "Talent and cleverness, yes indeed, and quite a fair amount of brains to go with. What's that I see there at the back? Hoping to clean up a tarnished name, to prove yourself despite your origins? Most intriguing. One might almost say brave."

_I'd really rather not Gryffindor, if you don't mind, _Mal thought carefully. _It'd be fun with my friends, even if we did have to avoid that Hermione Granger, but..._

"Yes, I see, you have plans of your own. They all do, and none of them want to listen to the old Hat, no, they don't." The Hat sighed. "Well, you've obviously worked hard to get where you are, you'd fit in well enough where you want to be, and at least you were polite about it. You wouldn't believe the amount of shouting I have to put up with. All right, then. HUFFLEPUFF!"

Mal had to grab the edges of the stool to avoid falling off it in relief as the table on the far right burst into cheers. Professor McGonagall pulled the Hat off his head and looked at him searchingly. He gave her his cheekiest grin, slid to the floor, and took off at a run.

_I did it. I'm in. I have to write to Tonks before I go to bed, she'll be over the moon without a broomstick..._

As he squeezed in between a curly-haired boy who was staring awestruck at the floating candles and a girl with a long plait down her back, Mal noticed a blond third year staring fixedly at him from across the table. "Something for you?" he asked.

"What's a Malfoy doing here?" said the boy loudly, though his voice was slightly eclipsed by the Hat's "RAVENCLAW!" for Lillian Moon. "I thought your family considered us the wrong sort."

"You have the advantage of me," Mal said, letting a bit of his mother's favorite icy politeness seep into his tone.

"Smith, Amos Smith. If it's any of your business."

"We're Housemates now, so why wouldn't it be? As for the wrong sort..." Mal paused after the word and let his eyes drift back to the stool and Hat, now both in use by Theodore Nott. Several people laughed.

"Maybe my family will think it's wrong," Mal went on, smiling to himself as the Hat bellowed "SLYTHERIN!" and Nott gave up his place to Pansy Parkinson. "But for me, it's just right."


	5. Mail and Mysteries

Hufflepuffs never pried, exactly, but they had ways of finding things out and spreading the word around. Before breakfast on the first morning of classes, every member of the House was aware that their fairest-haired new member preferred to be called by the shortened form of his surname and that he neither shared nor appreciated references to his father's proclivities. Being Hufflepuffs, they took these preferences at face value, which relieved Mal immensely. He could have handled the inevitable teasing that the Gryffindors would have handed out or the endless questions he would have taken from the Ravenclaws, but adjusting to school was far easier without them.

_And let's not even go into what I'd be getting right now in The-House-Which-Must-Not-Be-Named. Though if Father really was as highly ranked as he always says, I might get off some of it. Depends on how much of his importance I could claim for myself, and how long I could hang onto it…_

But those were hypothetical questions, good only for occupying time when there was nothing else to do, and very little of Mal's time now qualified as such. What classes and homework didn't take up, chatting with his new Housemates and learning his way around the castle did. His first week vanished as if enchanted into the past, and it took a testy hoot and a peck on the hand to alert him to his first piece of mail on Friday morning.

"Sorry about that," he said to the handsome snowy owl, removing the slightly grubby piece of paper from her beak. "Sausage? I'm done with it."

The owl eyed the offering, then snapped up the half-link sitting on the edge of Mal's plate with the distinct air of doing him a favor. Mal suppressed a grin and unfolded the paper.

Addressed to Harry Potter, the letter was an invitation from Hagrid to visit that afternoon. Underneath the signature, Harry had scribbled, _Ron and I are going down after lunch. Let us know if you can come. Hedwig will bring your answer back._

Mal dug his timetable out of his bag, verified what he'd thought he remembered, and found a quill after a few more moments of scrounging. _Be glad to,_ he wrote, and handed the note back to the owl, who must be Hedwig. "Off you go," he said, and Hedwig launched herself into the air, ducking an eagle owl on its way to the High Table.

_That had better not be Father trying to manage me by proxy through Snape…_

But even if it was, Mal reflected, the attempt was going to fail. Professor Snape had exactly as much to do with Hufflepuff's first years as Professor Sprout did with Slytherin's—he taught them a basic class, making sure they had the preliminary knowledge they would need to move on to higher levels in the years to come.

_Though he grumbles more about how stupid we all are. And he keeps watching me like he's not quite sure what to make of me. Well, Professor, guess what? You don't have to make anything of me. That's my job, and I'm doing fine with it, thank you very much._

Draining his goblet of pumpkin juice, Mal set his napkin on the table and stood up, grabbing his bag. He still had a few minutes before double Charms, and he wanted to finish the progressive letter he'd been writing to Tonks all week.

_Now that I think I see a way I can get it to her without anyone knowing about it. _

His lack of mail was part of the Clever Plan (the capital letters had been added by his father, who was already halfway under the impression that he, not Mal, had come up with it in the first place). It was meant to convince his schoolmates, and by extension their parents, that Lucius Malfoy had all but disowned his son for the heinous offense of daring to be Sorted anywhere but Slytherin. Judging by the pitying looks he'd received over the breakfast table in the last week from some of his old acquaintances who now wore green and silver, Mal thought it might be working.

_At least he decided not to send me that Howler. Too vulgar. He'll just disapprove from a distance, coldly. _

_Unfortunately, the mail ban means Tonks can't write to me directly either. And I don't want to blow my cover by being spotted in the Owlery—I barely made it out without being spotted the first night after sending off that "I'm in" note to her. I might be able to get in and out under the scry once I know the ground better, but that takes time, and if my letters to Tonks are riding on it, I might rush too much and bungle it up. Bad tradecraft, that. _

If Hagrid were willing to let them use his house as a mail drop, though, the problem was solved.

_And I think he will if I ask nicely, _Mal wrote near the bottom of his scroll, _both because he likes us and because he thinks it's funny to help us hide what we're doing from my dearest father. _A rough sketch of a skull and crossbones adorned the adjective. _Hope they're not working you too hard at Auror school. Write back soon. _Another quick sketch of a watch with hands blurring from speed, and he added the code and signature with which he always ended their letters: _LYL, Mal_

Blowing on the ink to dry it, he rolled up the scroll, stuck it into his bag, and started for the marble staircase just as the bell rang for the end of breakfast.

* * *

"Snape hates me," was the first thing out of Harry's mouth when Mal joined him and Ron in the entrance hall after lunch.

Mal shrugged. "It's not personal. Snape hates everyone."

"Except his own ickle Slytherins," said Ron, directing a glare over Mal's shoulder. Mal turned in time to see a back he tentatively tagged as that of Theodore Nott vanishing down the stairs towards the dungeons.

_Why bother being angry at him? He wouldn't stick his neck out for his own father… oh wait, neither would I. Never mind. _

"You weren't there," Harry said, leading the way out the oak doors into the afternoon sun. "He threw this long list of questions at me and wouldn't leave off, not even when Hermione Granger had her hand so high in the air she had to stand up so it wouldn't fly away without her."

"It'll get a chance next week." Mal angled his head towards the Quidditch pitch. "That's when they start the first year flying lessons. But I take your point—so Snape hates you in particular. So what? You're a Gryffindor, you're famous, that's all he needs to work up a good hate. Somebody'll have a spectacular accident and get his attention on them and he'll let you be for a while."

"Didn't work." Harry kicked at a loose piece of sod. "Neville melted his cauldron and got himself sent to the hospital wing, and Snape took points off me."

"Really." Mal pondered this for a moment. "That does sound like he's got it in for you. Wonder why."

"Old business, maybe?" Ron sketched a jagged line on his forehead to indicate what he meant. "He seems like the type."

"To have been in with Vol—" Harry stopped as Ron made frantic shushing motions. "All right, then, You-Know-Who. Maybe. We can ask Hagrid, he might know."

Mal kept his mouth firmly shut.

* * *

"Tha's not yer business," Hagrid said firmly. "Mind, I'm not sayin' I approve o' everythin' he's ever done, but it's what he is now yeh oughter respect. An' what he is now, is yer professor. Got that?"

"Got it," Harry said, shoving Fang's head off his knee for the fourth time since they'd arrived. Fang grumbled in his throat, but Ron set the better part of a rock cake on the floor beside his chair, and that pulled the boarhound's attention away from Harry instantly. Across the table, Mal was experimenting with soaking his own cake in a saucerful of tea. He glanced up for a moment at Harry, then returned his gaze to the soggy pastry.

Harry sat back in his chair and picked up his teacup. He had the feeling he'd just received a secret message.

_I only wish I knew what it was. _

"You said you spend half your life chasing Fred and George away from the Forest," said Ron, nudging Fang away with a foot. "Did they ever get past you?"

"Couple'a times." Hagrid smirked. "Bet they never tol' yeh 'bout th' time I had ter go convince a wild herd o' hippogriffs they weren' a midnight snack o' gingerbread..."

Ron guffawed, and Harry had to fight to keep his tea from reappearing via his nose. Mal groaned and tapped his head lightly with his knuckles. "Men-tal," he sing-songed. "Ab-so-lute-ly men-tal."

"You're telling me?" Ron wheezed. "I live with 'em!"

For some reason, everyone found this even funnier.

* * *

Mal dropped back beside Harry as Ron led the way towards the castle later. "Yes?" he drawled in his laziest pureblood voice.

"You were trying to tell me something in there." Harry's jerk of the head indicated Hagrid's cabin, where a tawny owl with a thick scroll attached to her leg preened her wings before taking off. "I don't think I got it."

"The gentleman doth protest too much, methinks?" Mal produced the infuriating smile that went with the voice. "Or do you not get that one either?"

Harry's expression never changed. Mal dropped the attitude and nodded. "You're good."

"I'll let you watch my cousin sometime. You'll understand. Are you going to tell me or not?"

"Course I am." Mal pitched his voice to carry up to Ron, who slowed down to let them catch up with him. "Hagrid was awfully insistent that we have to respect what Snape is _now_. Why would he put so much emphasis on that if Snape had a totally blameless life way back when? I bet you my broomstick he was a sympathizer at least."

_I know for a fact he was more than that, but I'm not about to volunteer it. Not when I finally have friends who seem willing to forget where I come from. _

_Besides, it would be violating rule one of the trade._

_No matter who you're dealing with, never tell everything you know._

He allowed himself a secret smile. _After all, there are some things even Tonks doesn't know about me..._

* * *

The Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw flying lesson went smoothly, which Mal heard later could not be said of the Gryffindor-Slytherin one. Neville Longbottom, unnerved by whispered taunts from the Slytherins, had apparently allowed his broom to run away with him, and had both been rescued and had a small but valuable piece of property saved by none other than Harry Potter.

"And if he'd been anyone else they'd've sent him straight home," Ron said in mixed disgust and admiration after dinner. "Instead guess what he gets!"

"A Special Award for Services to the School?" Mal hazarded.

"Better." Ron glanced around, then leaned in close. "McGonagall made him Seeker for Gryffindor!"

"She—" Mal clamped down on his first reaction, and his second, and his third. "If it stops Slytherin winning the House Cup again, I'm all for it," he said once he had his voice back under control. "Though he'd better watch out this winter. We've got a pretty good Seeker ourselves from all I hear. A year or two ahead of us—Diggory's the name, Cedric Diggory..."

_Which probably means I'll have to play Chaser when I try out next year. If I try out next year. I don't know if going out for the Quidditch team would fit the person I'm trying to be. _

For the first time it occurred to him that the masquerade he'd signed up for had its downsides as well as ups.

_But I said I would, and I will. Doing this right could be more important than Quidditch will ever be. _

_Not that I'd ever say that in front of Ron. _


End file.
